history
by La Reine Rouge
Summary: "I slowly walked into my sixth period world history class, surveyed it, and cursed everything from myself to my guidance counselor to BP and back.    Because the entire class was filled with them.   The pod people."
1. Chapter 1

**history.  
**disclaimer: I don't own the characters of the Clique, I simply manipulate them as I'd like (: Thanks Lisi!

****  
It's the doom of the optimistic person.  
Every time September rolls around, when the leaves turn different shades of colors you wouldn't want to paint your walls and when the apples are at their perfect level of crispness, I find myself sinking into a kind of optimism.  
_Maybe the classes won't be too bad, _I think to myself. _Just maybe, it'll get better.  
_And while I'm at it, maybe McDonald's will shut down, world peace will develop, and we'll all figure out global warming is a hoax.

You see, my problem is wishing for the good to happen, because the plans always fall through. In the fourth grade, when I transferred out of public school and into OCD, I snorted and then managed to trip all over a flight of stairs on my very first day. This of course, led Principal Bird-Face to have a worried conference among teachers and faculty about public safety for an hour and fifty minutes. Needless to say, no one let me live it down.  
During the summer before 8th grade, the one where I sat in my room and blasted girlish pop music while trying to figure out ways to conceal my braces as much as possible, I realized I'd be going into high school soon. A new chance.

Of course, with my infinite luck, the most awful people in my entire class also had a group conference to try to make the next four years of my life hell too.  
_"Massie Block? Please. It's only been five years. No time at all," Olivia Ryan would say, painting her nails a risqué black.  
"You're right," her beloved puppy-slave, Claire Lyons, would add, earning herself a treat and a scratch behind the ears.  
"We must follow her to high school," the ultimate jackass, Cameron Fisher added.  
The ultimate uber-jock, Derrick Harrington, and his beta best friends, Chris Plovert and Danny Robbins, high-fived in agreement.  
"Let's do this," Kristen Gregory would grin. "And while we're at it, let's plan to all go to her college too…"_Perhaps a small degree of hyperbole found itself into the scenario I dreamed up / fabricated, but I'm positive that at least 60% of that happened in real life.  
Well, anyways, that's how I found myself in Briarwood High School, where I was deemed worthy of social suicide by Olivia Ryan ("Sweats on your very first day? I know who's staying single all four years," she sing-songed, grabbing onto Cameron's arm and sashaying off) and was noted as unworthy by the proclaimed royalty of the freshmen class.  
_And then Regina George's eviler, younger sister was kicked off her throne by the seniors who promptly put her in her face.  
_Unfortunately, the year I was a freshman, Olivia's sister, Catherine, was head cheerleader and just about the most idolized-senior since Betty White. So of course, that entire clan of whores got invited to all the best parties with all the finest people. And by the time we were sophomores, Olivia and the group had fully defined themselves as walking Abercrombie models that were in charge. Even the seniors bowed down. I, of course, completely ignored them.  
_Or tried to, at least. _

Sure, I made friends, who were also deemed as unworthy, and developed a few good friendships. Nothing worth incorporating into _The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, _but it made freshmen year a little less intimidating.

The first day of sophomore year, we got our schedules {of course, my friends were in third period chemistry while I was doomed to last period chem and seventh period lunch}. The majority of my morning classes, because the school was so large, were filled with people I talked to. This was strange, but understandable because they were either trapped in their world {the girl who was assigned the seat behind me in English sang about a purple bunny named Petunia to the beat of Yankee Doodle} or were complete morons {i.e., Griffin Hastings, who asked the teacher if Abraham Lincoln was dead}.

Then came dooms-period.  
I slowly walked into my sixth period world history class, surveyed it, and cursed everything from myself to my guidance counselor to BP and back.  
Because the entire class was filled with _them.  
_The pod people.  
_It smells like cigarettes and Chivas – oh never mind, Olivia Ryan is here. That explains everything.  
_Josh Hotz, the kid who had just transferred from Massachusetts because he had been kicked out of three schools, was instantly deemed one of them. They probably had inaugurated him with a laurel crown and a trophy pronouncing him the next Mars, to fit their little circle of deities.  
Am I exaggerating? Absolutely not.

I slinked down to a seat in the third row closest to the door and in perfect viewing of the clock, waiting for the teacher to arrive.  
_Praying for the teacher to arrive.  
_When Mrs. Clarkson arrived, jumbo coffee in hand and a million papers every which way, everyone sat down, the pod people in their respective window seats so that the sun would reflect off their orange skin, everyone else in the darkness.  
She started to elaborate on the course syllabus and turned around to write something in squeaky, high school-issued chalk, when Cameron Fisher turned around and said something to Olivia Ryan.  
"Problem, Mister Fisher?" She said, quite suspiciously.

I wouldn't be surprised. Cameron's older brother, Harris, had made himself a Briarwood legend by releasing all the frogs in the biology lab.  
"No, Mrs. Clarkson," he smirked.  
"Well just as a pre-emptive strike, I might as well stop this before it gets out of hand. Why don't you sit over there?" She pointed to the seat in front of me.  
_Thanks. Just stick a dunce cap on my while you're at it.  
_Cameron let out a dramatic sigh and swung over to the desk, swiveling around to whisper "Aren't you lucky?" at me.  
I stared blankly.

And so began history, where I willed myself to focus on Mrs. Clarkson's Bensonhurst accent and ignore Cam. Cameron. No, I won't call him Cam. _They _call him Cam. Except his mop of dark hair was dreadfully distracting. And the way he turned his head upside-down almost every class to ask me for a pen, which he never gave back. And then, of course, the eyes.  
_On the bathroom wall, someone had once written: "Cam Fisher's eyes make my panties drop."  
_I had once thought it was stupid and foolish and girly, but if I didn't know better, I'd wholeheartedly agree._  
_One of them was blue and one of them was dark green. Blue like the ocean and green like… well, green as grass. I sort of wished he wore an eye patch so I wouldn't stare, because it wasn't fair. I love blue eyes and green eyes, and having both of them? There's no chance.  
They were irritating. Frustrating. Distracting.  
_Intoxicating._

I reminded myself, as did my closest friend, Dylan Marvil, that he was one of them. Mean. Rude. Awful.  
So when he turned around and flashed me a smile in mid-October, why did my heart beat?  
Faster and faster, until I felt that I would die of a conniption.  
_Maybe he'd give mouth-to-OH GOD.  
_I was horrified with myself.  
_I decided to punish myself with staring straight down at my textbook for three days straight.  
_Well, that was the plan, anyway.  
Until the second day, when Mrs. Clarkson was no where to be seen for twenty minutes, and the planets had obviously shifted gears and the stars shone weirdly somewhere, and Cam turned around, legitimately, and struck up a conversation.  
About something stupid his brother did, and I don't even remember what I said, but I do remember nodding goofily and uttering 'haha's' here and there. Obviously, he was pleased, because the next day, he talked to me again. Despite the stink eye that Olivia and her two blonde best friends gave him. That was October 24th, that I remember. It was the day we started to study Greece, chapter four.

That was the day I started to have daydreams about Cameron Fisher, sitting behind him in world history class.

****  
Where I'm going with this story is a series of daydreams, then perhaps a few other chapters. (:  
R & R?


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for the constructive criticism, it really means a lot to me. Because I have free time, I'll be writing a lot now (:

Disclaimer: you know the drill. I'm not Lisi

It was 10:43 pm on that very same Tuesday night, when I probably should've been doing my never-ending chemistry homework, when I posed the question to my closest friend, Dylan Marvil.

"What should I wear for school tomorrow?" I wondered aloud, rifling through my closet.

A pause. A very long pause.  
I pressed my earlobe on the receiver to make sure we hadn't been disconnected.

_Oh God, did she overdose on Twinkies again?_

"Dylan?" I asked tentatively, hoping that I wouldn't hear a crème-muffled response. "Are you there?"

I looked at my chemistry homework, which appeared to have got it on and multiplied in my folder. _  
Seven sheets?_

"What did you just ask me?" She asked solemnly.

"I asked you what to wear tomorrow," I said slowly, tapping on my receiver to make sure that all the phone lines were connected.

"Massie, in the two years we've known each other, you've _never _asked me that," she sounded half awe-struck, half of something else.

_The Marvil marveled._

I smiled at my dorky play on words before my smile melted into a frown.

"And why can't I ask?" I asked defensively.

_Oh great, now I'm on the defensive. Keep calm and have a cupcake.  
_  
"Because you've never asked… And this is only the crème on top of the delicate flamed Alaska!" She warned. I could imagine her face getting redder to match her hair. "You've been acting really weird lately…"

"Oh yeah?" I asked huffily. "How is that?"

"You asked me for lipstick yesterday, Massie."  
"How is that weird?"  
"This June, you told me that the first and last time you've ever worn lipstick was at your third grade dance recital."

A pause in the conversation, before I hastily added, "It was sixth grade."  
_Why was she so on my case anyways?  
_"I'm on your case because you're acting really, really weird."  
_Oh shit, I said that out loud.  
_"Yes, Massie, you did."

That answer left me stunned. My hands clammed up and I stammered for an answer.

"Well," I growled because I had nothing more intelligent to say, "I'll decide what to wear tomorrow all by myself. Thanks for being such a help," I added snarkily.

_Oh great, the pod people are already starting to rub off on me.  
_  
"Fine," Dylan replied, and I could tell she was hurt, "I'll see you tomorrow. Maybe you should ask _Olivia Ryan _for advice," she said before hanging up abruptly.

I threw my silver phone onto the wooden floor and sighed indignantly.

Then I stopped, wondering if Dylan was right or simply being overemotional.

_Nah, _I decided as I picked out a tight sweater I had never worn before, _she's just PMSing. And anyways, _I thought loftily to myself, _if this outfit gets me noticed, I can set her up with Chris Pl-_

__I stopped myself before I went any further, horrified at my stream-of-consciousness, which I attributed to lack of sleep.

-

The next day, I wore the new sweater and jeans that weren't completely loose. I even stooped down to the point of mascara, and then quickly wiped it off when I realized that the make-up fumes might lead to even more delirious thoughts regarding certain people.

My day went pretty normally, until I reached world history. I stared down at my notebook, willing myself not to look up.

A swirl of Armani Code lured my olfactory senses into a trap, and when I looked up, I was looking right into the eyes of Cam-CAMERON. Cameron Fisher.

"Hey," he smiled. "I like your sweater."

_And then the heavens opened and the chorus began singing. _

__"Thanks," I managed to stutter. One of my eyes began doing that weird twitch-blink thing, and I realized after he turned around that I had been holding in my breath.  
I let it out as quietly as possible to not make him confuse my sigh with a dream-like swoon.

_I did not just use the word 'swoon'. The faster I get out of here, the better._

Mrs. Clarkson once again began a pointless spiel on Greece, even going as far as to bore us with a lecture on life in ancient Athens and Sparta. I stared at the back of Cam-CAMERON's dark head and wondered how he managed to get it looking so perfect every day.

I silently cursed myself for becoming such a fan!girl.

Soon I'd be wearing those shirts with "Team Cam" written on them [or worse, _underwear_], watching for his every move, following his Facebook profile and activity, monitoring his activities with girls, and possibly staking out his house. 

This wasn't going to end well, I thought, attempting to keep my eyes open through the lecture.

I don't know when I tuned out, but I suddenly got a vivid picture in my head. One that I am ashamed to admit, but it happened nevertheless.

_Cameronus tied on his leather sandals and adjusted his tunic. He was about to go out to the acropolis and… sell turnips? No, something better. Manlier.  
He was going to go fight for democracy and present his ideas to the public in ideas that would later make Rousseau and Montesquieu tremble with brilliance._

I, as the woman of the house, was perched on what resembled a column, sewing or embroidering [did they embroider back then? I don't care. It's my fantasy, it can play out as I'd like]. My hair was up and I had a long, flowing tunic.

I looked at him as he carried several packages out the door, resembling a statue of Zeus.

"Mass, I'm going to the acropolis. Be safe. Protect yourself." He warned.

"I'm completely safe," I fluttered my eyelashes. "Why should you worry, my darling?" I asked as perfect Greek goddess and god children [ours, I presumed] ran around my feet, hosting their own miniature Olympics.

"We might be going to war with Sparta soon." He whispered, so that the children did not hear.

"But… But… Why?" I asked, locking eyes with him.

He shook his head. "Tensions have been rising since the end of the Persian Wars. With the creation of the Delian League and everything –" His voice trailed off. "I… I just hope that you stay safe. Be careful."

I blinked rapidly. I comforted Cameron, telling him that I was sure that Pericles would sufficiently fortify Athens as he had promised to.  
He looked at me and smiled gently – benevolently. He bade me farewell and left, leaving me with the children and the slaves.

But somehow, I knew that everything was going to be alright, just as long as Cam was -

"Miss Block, you're so **enraptured **by this, aren't you?" Mrs. Clarkson asked me sarcastically.

I jolted awake, the lights seeming way too bright. The entire class looked at me, some giggling and others completely unaware. At least two people were having a snooze-fest of their own.

"Oh. No ma'am. I'm really sorry about this." I honestly confessed.

Mrs. Clarkson looked at me suspiciously and then turned to poke the other poor souls who had fallen asleep.

Cam turned around to face me.  
"You looked nice dreaming," Cam smiled. "You looked like you were having a better time than we were here."

As I usually react when confronting someone I had just dreamt of, all the color rushed to my cheeks. I willed my paleness to shine through for once and not make Cam believe that I was blushing because he had spoken to me.

"Yeah, I'm really tired," I feigned a yawn.  
_Tired of this situation, that's what I mean._

"Well, sleep always does the body good. I love to sleep…It's quite entertaining…"

Somehow, I felt an innuendo lying within his words.  
_I'm looking for an innuendo, aren't I?_

So I just tittered and was shaken out of my dreamlike phase by the loud, harsh bell. I almost spilled all my books, but Cam, of course, swooped in and saved the day.

"Thanks," I said, not willing myself to meet his gaze.

"No problem," he said, hitching his backpack on himself and exiting the classroom.

I sighed.  
This was going to be a very long rest of the year.

***  
Thanks so much to the reviewers :] You really make me happy and the advice is priceless to a newbie like me ! Thanks ! 3


End file.
